Who cares?

I was walking along Central Park South a few days ago, thinking about my novel, when an unsettling thought struck me.

I no longer seemed to care about my characters.

Wait a minute. Even though all of the events were completely fictionalized, this was my story. Didn't I care about myself?

No, not really.

I had trained myself to dismiss all my non-business-related goals as unimportant. Anything that sucked time out of my business was frivolous. I had a mission: to get my business off the ground, to build up a steady client base, to replenish my savings.

I didn't have time to waste on such self-serving activities as going to the gym or, God forbid, writing a silly novel.

Ouch.

The realization reminded me of a conversation I had had with a friend only a few weeks earlier. Every time I made an appointment with myself and broke it, whether I was supposed to go to the gym or simply write in my journal, I sent the unconscious message that I wasn't important. And I would resent myself for it.

He was right.

I became angry with myself. Why wasn't my story important? Didn't I have just as much right to be heard as the next person?

I had given myself the mental kick in the pants I needed. And rediscovered my passion for my novel in progress.